A baby fills a place in your heart you never knew was empty.
— Unknown
ONE day, while Mother was weaving a rattan mat, I innocently asked her why I was born. It was 1959, and I was just over six years old. I remember that day because the following year I was in Primary One, which was a significant and therefore memorable period in my life.
Mother paused for a moment, and I thought she was going to answer me. Instead, she let out a long sigh and continued weaving, her fingers deftly flipping, twisting, tensioning, wrapping, and packing the thin rattan strips.
After several moments of silence, I assumed that I was being ignored and dismissed. I was about to go play outside with my little brother when she said, “Do you understand what you asked?”
I thought about it for a second and shook my head.
“Then why did you ask?”
“I heard some men talking about it,” I said.
“Where? At the shop?”
“No, over there!” I said, pointing to a mountain stream behind our village house. The day was extremely hot, and the men were soaking themselves in one of the deep pools.
In those days, there was no piped water in the village. Everyone bathed in the stream, and for drinking water, there was an endless supply in a tiny tributary of that stream, also behind our house.
“What else did they say?” Mother asked.
“I only remember the question.”
“You remember, and you have been thinking about it.”
“Yes. Round and round it goes in my head.”
“You’re a little boy. Why think about such a thing?”
“My mind won’t stop.”
“Don’t think too much.”
“I can’t. How come some mothers in this village don’t seem to be happy?”
“Why do you think so?”
“They seem to be always angry with their children and their husbands.”
“Why do you notice such things?”
“I don’t like angry people.”
“What about me? I get angry sometimes.”
“You are different. You are allowed to get angry.”
“What?!”
Mother laughed and laughed so hard till she couldn’t laugh anymore.
“Oh, my funny little boy! You’re strange but funny,” she said as she wiped her tears. “What about your father? Is he allowed to get angry?”
“No! I don’t like him when he gets angry.”
“And you don’t like those angry women.”
“They’re so loud! They scream and even hit their kids.”
“Do you think they love their kids?”
I thought about it for a while. “Umm … maybe. I don’t know.”
“You have pinched your little brother before, haven’t you?”
“I have. Sometimes he annoyed me.”
“But you love him?”
“I do. Sometimes I made him cry, then I hugged and consoled him.”
“See? People are complicated. So, if I tell you why you were born, both of us might become confused.”
“Are you annoyed with me for having asked?”
“No! I’m just surprised, even shocked that you have such a thought. You’re such an unusual child.”
“So, you’re not going to tell me?”
Instead of answering me immediately, she went back to weaving her mat. I guess she was gathering her thoughts. To my impatient mind, her silence seemed like an eternity.
“I … we wanted you,” she finally mumbled under her breath.
“What?”
“I said we wanted you!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I wanted a baby.”
“Why? You already have my sister.”
“Because I wanted a boy.”
“Why?”
“I wanted a girl and a boy.”
“Why?”
“I just gave you an answer!”
“Why? I don’t get it.”
At this point, an aunt — one of Mother’s cousins — called from outside asking if we were home. Mother told her to come in.
Aunt Tariyn used to help Mother look after me and my little brother when we were younger.
“I hope I am not interrupting anything,” she said as she let herself down on the floor.
“I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you have better ideas,” said Mother.
“What for?” asked Aunt Tariyn.
“To help this little fellow,” said Mother.
“What?! What has he done this time?” asked Aunt Tariyn.
“He wants to know why he was born,” said Mother.
“Ooh! I swear, child, you give me a headache every time I’m with you.”
“You’re lucky he’s not with you every day,” said Mother. “He always says the darndest thing.”
“I tell you what, child,” Aunt Tariyn began. “When you become an adult, you get married and have kids of your own.”
“Why?”
“Why? How should I know? It has always been like that since the world began.”
“But Mother said she wanted me!”
“I wanted you, but I don’t know what other people wanted,” Mother interjected.
“Oh! Do they know?
“Know what?”
“Why do they have kids!”
“I don’t know!”
“Listen here, child,” said Aunt Tariyn in a placating voice. “You were born because your father and mother wanted to bring a
new life into this world.”
“Why?”
“They want to love and take care of you, watch you grow, and help you become ….”
“But people die!”
Aunt Tariyn was dumbstruck. She turned to Mother and gestured that she had nothing more to say. And that was the unsatisfactory end of our conversation.
For the rest of my childhood, the topic never came up again. As people say, life happened, and I was too busy most of the time to entertain such thoughts.
Later on in life, though, as I got older, calmer, and hopefully wiser, that particular thought returned as if it demanded answers.
Having read widely and pondered long and hard, I have come to realise that the question of why we were born is a philosophical and existential one, and there are many different perspectives on its usefulness or significance.
From a practical standpoint, knowing why we were born may not necessarily provide us with tangible benefits or help us achieve specific goals in our daily lives. However, for many people, understanding the purpose of their existence can provide a sense of direction, meaning, and fulfillment.
For some individuals, religious or spiritual beliefs can provide an answer to the question of why we were born, giving them a sense of connection to a higher power or a greater purpose. Others may find meaning in their relationships with loved ones, their contributions to society, or their personal goals and aspirations.
Ultimately, whether or not it is useful to want to know why we were born is a subjective question that depends on an individual’s beliefs, values, and priorities. Some people may find that seeking an answer to this question enriches their lives and gives them a greater sense of purpose, while others may not see it as a particularly important or relevant inquiry.
Additionally, I have experienced life as a process, a journey. It’s meant to be lived and not wasted in worrying about death.
Everything is going to end. Everything ultimately passes from present to past just like those minutes which you just now “wasted” while reading this story. Nothing is immortal!
Life constantly moves forward, with each moment presenting a new opportunity to experience and learn. It is a journey full of ups and downs, twists and turns, and unexpected challenges that shape and define who we are. While death is an inevitable part of this journey, it should not consume our thoughts and actions to the point where we forget to truly live.
Worrying about death can rob us of the present moment and prevent us from fully experiencing the richness of life. It is important to recognise that everything in life is impermanent, including our material possessions and even our physical bodies. This impermanence can be a reminder to cherish the moment and appreciate what we have while we have it.
Despite our desire for immortality, nothing in life is truly immortal. Everything has a beginning and an end, and this applies to both living and non-living things. This realisation can be unsettling, but it can also be liberating. When we accept the impermanence of life, we can start to focus on what truly matters and make the most of the time we have.
In the end, life is a precious gift that should be lived to the fullest. Rather than worrying about death, we should embrace the present moment and make the most of our time on this earth. Through this mindset, we can cultivate a sense of gratitude and appreciation for all the experiences that life has to offer.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
